


Going Postal

by onceuponamoon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Humor, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Bucky Barnes + waiting in line at the post office."</p>
<p><i>Steve’d asked all casually, like he wasn’t really thinking about it, all, “Hey, you mind running this to the post office for me?  You won’t </i>believe<i> the price of stamps nowadays.”  But he’d forked over a couple of bills with a pat on Bucky’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, Buck.  Owe ya one.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Postal

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Chels](http://chelsri.tumblr.com) for the prompt and for looking it over. I hope this was amusing enough.

Brim of his hat tilted low over his face, gloved metal left hand shoved into his pocket, package tucked under his flesh-and-blood arm, Bucky almost trips up the steps to go into the post office. So then he makes the executive decision to flip it brim-side back so he can actually see shit in front of him around the bulk of the box. It makes his hair settle weirdly against his scalp. Whatever.

If someone recognizes him, he’ll just tell them to mind their own damn business.

Inside, there are a few more steps and Bucky takes care to actually step _on_ them, still working on keeping the package balanced. He passes the automatic shipping thing, the stamp machine, the hall full of P.O. boxes and heads through the door to the place where he can talk to an actual person.

Only it’s _packed_. 

The line is wrapped around like three different partitions, serpentine, with most people standing silently with letters and packages and car keys in their hands, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. Others are chatting to uninterested line buddies, and Bucky prays to god that whoever comes in behind him – because there will undoubtedly be someone as it’s just after noon on a Friday – can keep their mouth shut. He cuts off a groan of horror and dutifully stands in line, cursing Steve for asking him a favor.

Steve’d asked all casually, like he wasn’t really thinking about it, all, “Hey, you mind running this to the post office for me? You won’t _believe_ the price of stamps nowadays.” But he’d forked over a couple of bills with a pat on Bucky’s shoulder and said, “Thanks, Buck. Owe ya one.”

So here he is.

The line moves at an infinitesimal rate; it’s two steps here, four steps there, ten minutes of waiting in between. Like he’d predicted, someone comes in behind him, a massive envelope held together with tape tucked under her arm, almost close enough to jab Bucky in the back. Eyeing it, he shifts forward a half-step – and she shifts _with_ him, still too close.

It makes the back of his neck prickle, the hairs standing on end.

Bucky makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder at her. She’s in her mid-to-late fifties, hair in that classic grandma-’do, and the package has stickers all over it with a return address labeled as “Mamaw Jones.” She makes eye contact.

Bucky winces.

“Long line,” she muses.

Bucky ignores her, eyeing the line in front of them and then the exit.

“Gotta get this off to my grandkids today so they can get it before the weekend.”

Bucky holds in a sigh. He shifts his weight to his right foot and the lady scoots _even closer_. Two seconds later, the line moves and Bucky’s breath comes slightly easier. Only there’s the fact that there is less than five inches of space between the sleeve of his left arm and the lady beside him – and she’s _still talking_. About her grandkids in Volgograd, her plans to go visit, the fact that her son is a very successful international advisor, _that’s why the family’s in Russia, darling_. She doesn’t notice that Bucky’s bristling ( _Jesus_ , especially about all the Russia talk; it’s too goddamn soon for that), not-quite trembling with annoyance, anxiety, rage. 

He supposes he could tell her that he’s not currently interested in conversation, that he wants to get this shipped off for Steve and then hightail it somewhere he can be alone for five goddamn minutes. He could, but he doesn’t. He toughs it out – doesn’t even entertain the thought of claiming a mental break, fuck the consequences from SHIELD, and using his metal prosthetic to clear a path through the bodies to the front of the line, shoving the package over, and getting the fuck out of dodge. 

Okay, maybe he thinks about it a little. But at least it keeps him from having to listen to Mamaw back there.

Outta nowhere, the edge of her envelope stabs him in the back – and Bucky registers the flex, the whirr and clank of his arm within the sweater sleeve, but manages to keep his hand in his pocket. 

Geez, and the closer they get to the front, the more the lady talks, faster and faster like she needs to get out her whole life story before Bucky’s out of earshot and he just wants to _get this done_. Then he’s hearin’ all about her first and second and third marriages and how her first husband went missing in the war but turned up three years later after she’d already remarried and then something about this affair they had until she found someone else and wow, Bucky just really doesn’t care. 

_Finally_ , it gets to the point where the next postal worker is waving him down and he just tips his head and gives a quiet, “Ma’am,” before he stalks over. Dropping the package onto the scale, Bucky blanches when the fella says it costs over twenty bucks to ship, _Jesus H. Christ_ , but forks over the cash that Steve gave him and pockets the change.

After he exits, carefully taking the steps down to the pavement, Bucky sees Mamaw standing outside of the building, looking down at her phone. He suppresses a cringe. He never even saw her slip out behind him. Doing his best to keep his eyes down, Bucky tugs the hat back around so that the brim covers his eyes again.

“Hey, _Myshka_ ,” comes Natalia’s voice from the woman’s face. 

Bucky freezes.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” he asks, shaking his head. A string of Russian curses fly out of Bucky’s mouth before he can rein it in and Natalia laughs, a quiet, snort of a thing, and removes the face-changer tech. She reaches up to tug his hat off while he finishes his blue streak. “It’s ain’t funny! You know I don’t have the patience for all that.”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, a quirk to her mouth as she tugs the hat onto her own head, “That’s a zero for conversational skills, Mr. Barnes. But a ten on patience. Good work.”

On the way home, Bucky pulls out his phone, sending, “ _Better be paid in full tonight_ ,” to Steve.

The snarky little, “ _Sir, yes, sir ;)_ ” he gets in return almost makes all the annoyance worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://onceuponamoon.tumblr.com)!


End file.
